


Happy Birthday, kiddo

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Up Came the Sun [26]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Happy Birthday Spider-man, My universe is Earth 199999.1, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 21:02:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20198131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: Peter smiles and looks down at his dangling feet.  “I don’t really feel like an adult.”“I got news for you, bud, I’ve been an adult for forty-nine years and I still don’t feel like an adult.” He bumps into Peter’s shoulder.  “That’s the big secret, that you’re now also sworn to:  every adult wishes there was a more adult-y adult around.”





	Happy Birthday, kiddo

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Peter!
> 
> Just a quick drabble. 
> 
> If you don't mind a blog that consists of shitposting, misunderstanding the memes all the kids talk about today, Johnlock conspiracies, and occasional MCU screaming follow me on the tumblr dot com [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

“There you are.”

Peter looks behind him to see Mr. Stark come out onto the stone terrace he’d snuck off to. Peter’s had fun, but the party is on the edge of too big, and a bit too formal, especially for a place like the Hall of Science. May and Pepper definitely went overboard, even if he did like the look on Flash’s face as each Avenger introduced themselves to him with the same sincerity as Mr. Rogers had that time in the Midtown parking lot. 

Pepper had actually invited his entire class, but Peter spent most of the night glued to Ned and MJ, more grateful than ever for them, especially considering they’d all be going their separate ways in less than two weeks. Peter is due at MIT on the 24th.

_“I might not be able to eat the rich--yet--but I’ll eat their food and steal their silverware” _MJ had announced as she opened her purse to reveal a pile of pilfered forks and lumps of something wrapped in cloth napkins. 

“Right here,” Peter smiles as he walks over, limping slightly after being on his feet for so long, and turns back to look at the elaborate playground. Uncle Ben used to bring him at least every other weekend during the summer.

“Having a good time?” Mr. Stark says when he reaches stone railing Peter’s sitting on. He leans back against it and reaches to hand Peter a small glass tumbler half-full of amber liquid.

“Yeah,” Peter nods. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.” He takes the glass from him. Mr. Stark has a glass of his own, but it’s fuller than Peter’s.

“You know the rules,” he nods towards the glass while pulling something out of the inside pocket of his coat. He sets it on his other side, outside of Peter’s view.

“No telling May,” Peter snickers, and takes a small sip of the scotch. It burns his throat, just like it did a year ago when Mr. Stark had poured him a drink. 

“Damn straight. Can’t drink until you’re twenty-one in real years,” Mr. Stark raises his glass and takes a big gulp. “And then you can buy your own alcohol.”

“Yeah, eighteen isn’t the fun birthday. It’s the _responsible_ birthday. That’s what MJ calls it.” Peter takes another tiny sip and tries not to grimace. Mr. Stark makes fun of him when he does, even though at his forty-ninth birthday party he got drunk enough to admit to Peter than nobody drinks it for the taste.

“That’s not wrong,” Mr. Stark sighs and leans both elbows on the stone railing. “You can vote...actually, you _should_ vote--”

“Yeah, MJ stopped by this afternoon and made me fill out the registration form.”

“Help her. Make sure there are no more 2016s,” Mr. Stark snorts, taking a swallow from his tumbler and reaching down to rub at his bad thigh. “So you can vote, and buy cigarettes, and _legally_ order movies like the one you did in Germany--”

“Oh my God Happy promised he wouldn’t tell you!”

“He lied,” Mr. Stark smirks at him, patting his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it kid...you’re practically a monk compared to me.”

“Yeah, Mr. Rhodes said that once,” Peter smiles and looks down at his dangling feet. “I don’t really feel like an adult.”

“I got news for you, bud, I’ve been an adult for forty-nine years and I still don’t feel like an adult.” He bumps into Peter’s shoulder. “That’s the big secret, that you’re now also sworn to: every adult wishes there was a more adult-y adult around.”

Peter laughs a bit. “I think that’s Mr. Rhodes. Or Mr. Rogers.”

“Oh, is that finally some respect I hear, for the one-hundred-and-one-year-old man who had a _very_ large part in your skinny little butt being here to turn eighteen?”

“Begrudging respect,” Peter makes a face.

“Oh, please. I saw you two sparring over the summer. He’s finally _Uncle Steve._”

“Yeah, _weird _Uncle Steve who talks about the war and complains about how _furniture just isn’t made like it used to be_.”

“Yeah. Uncle Steve,” Mr. Stark bumps Peter’s shoulder again, and he’s right. Peter thinks he finally understands why everyone looks up to Mr. Rogers. He’s kind and smart and has always gone out of his way to be supportive--especially after the car-attack incident--and even if he isn’t always completely right, he tries his best to be. Just like Mr. Stark.

“You know, he made the cake we’re actually gonna eat when we get home,” Mr. Stark swallows the rest of his scotch and sets the glass down next to the discreetly wrapped package.

“We’re not eating the one in there?” Peter twists to look behind him; he can see the sleek cake through the window, discreetly decorated in the colors of the old Iron Spider suit that nobody but the Avengers--and maybe Ned--would recognize. “May said it was blood orange and chocolate!”

“That’s another secret to adulthood, bud,” Mr. Stark turns around and looks out onto the lit playground. “The professionally made cake is actually garbage. The best cake comes from a box. It’s the pudding in the mix.”

“Then why did you buy it, Mr. Stark?”

“Because I wanted my kid to have a ridiculously overdone yet tasteful eighteenth birthday party. And,” he looks up at Peter over his glasses. “I wanted to finally wipe the smirk off that _lightning_ jerk’s face once and for all.”

Peter laughs out loud, sloshing some of his scotch onto the fancy dress pants Pepper had bought specifically for the party. “It’s Flash, Mr. Stark. And I think this finally may have done it.”

“Good,” Mr. Stark nods, then tilts his head. “And careful with that scotch. It cost more than the cake. If you’re not gonna drink it, I will.”

“I’ll drink it, Mr. Stark!” Peter laughs again, and takes a small sip. “Thank you. It’s a good party. And I’d like to request those shrimp things at every birthday going forward.”

“Yeah, I saw you house an entire tray of them,” Mr. Stark stands up straight and reaches to lay a hand over the package next to him. “And I saw Michelle stuff a bunch in her purse. Along with some silverware.”

“Sorry,” Peter grimaces. “I’ll get them back.”

“Eh, they’re not mine,” Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t care if the caterers come up a few short. Besides, you’re the one who’s going to have to reconcile Spider-man with a kleptomaniac girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, yet, Mr. Stark,” Peter feels a flush rise up the back of his neck. “We’ve only been on, like, two dates.”

“Kleptomaniac girlfriend who steals from your old man…”

“You know, she actually wrote an essay about how it’s not immoral to steal from billionaires,” Peter smirks and finishes the rest of his drink, setting the glass down with a *clink*. “It actually makes a lot of sense. You should probably check all your gold hoards after whenever she’s at the Tower.”

“Eh, half of it is gonna be yours when I die anyway,” Mr. Stark says nonchalantly, and Peter almost swallows his tongue. He lifts the small package. “Speaking of--”

“Wha--?”

“Not a conversation for tonight,” he says pointedly, and holds out the package. “But here’s your first gift, didn’t want to do it in the big group thing tomorrow.”

“Mr. Stark, you already got me the party.”

“Don’t blame the party on me. That was all Pepper and your Aunt, who I’d like to point out spent most of it with Morgan.”

“Oh, Morgan is definitely the only reason she goes over anymore,” Peter takes the package, wrapped in slick slate-gray paper. He looks down and flips it over in his hands. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Now don’t go and get all weird, somebody could come out here,” Mr. Stark pokes him in the arm. “Open it.”

Peter does, gently sliding his thumb under the seam and pulling the thick wrapping paper off. Underneath is a heavy tortoiseshell case, the kind he’s only ever really seen in the windows of stores on Fifth Avenue that May always joked they’d be thrown out of. Taped to one side is some heavy paper.

“Lottery tickets?” Peter laughs, pulling them off. There’s a Lucky Sevens and Win For Life, and a quarter under the tape.

“You’re eighteen, and I couldn’t very well buy you a pack of Lights.”

“True,” Peter laughs again. “May would definitely light you on fire for that.”

“Exactly. Now open it so we can go back in there and pretend to like that disgusting cake.”

Peter flips open the heavy lid, and inside rests a pair of sleek sunglasses. The metal shines the same way Mr. Roger’s--well, now Mr. Wilson’s--shield and T’Challa’s necklace do, and the lenses are a faint blue that Peter is sure aren’t just Trivex. They look like the glasses with FRIDAY that Mr. Stark always keeps on his person. 

“Oh, wow…” Peter whispers and pulls them out. He gently unfolds the arms and slips them on; they’re heavier than they look, heavier even than the thick glasses he needed before the spider bit him. Now he’s sure the lenses aren’t standard; despite the tint, his vision doesn’t darken. Everything is still crystal clear, even in the moonless night.

“They’ll filter just like the lenses in your suit, changing as needed. You won’t notice.”

“Holy cow, Mr. Stark! I--”

“Confirming bio-retinal scan.” 

Peter jumps a bit on the railing, and immediately forces himself to stick and stay put. A smooth female voice--different than either FRIDAY’s or Karen’s--emits from a miniscule speaker in the hinge. “Hello, Peter.”

“Hello?” Peter looks around even though he’s not expecting to see anybody. He waits a few seconds, then looks over at Mr. Stark when nothing happens. “Ok, so?”

“So?” Mr. Stark mimics. “Say _Edith._”

Peter frowns but pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Ok...Edith,” he repeats and waits.

“My database indicates the presence of Mr. Stark’s biological readings. In fact, he is standing right next to you, Peter. You do not yet have access to my systems.”

Peter whips his head around to glare at Mr. Stark, who lets out a full laugh. It feels like Peter isn’t in on some kind of joke. 

“Sorry, bud,” Mr. Stark slaps his back. “Couldn’t resist. You won’t get Edith until I fuck off this mortal coil.”

Peter glances back down at the case in his hands, then back up at Mr. Stark. A flash of panic rises in his chest. “Mr. Stark--”

“Relax, Pete, I’m not planning on it anytime soon,” his face sobers and he gently rubs a circle between Peter’s shoulder blades. “Not _any_time soon. _But,_” he nods pointedly, “in the event of my untimely demise many, many years from now, that’s everything.”

“What do you mean? Everything?” Peter doesn’t even know why he asks, he doesn’t even want to contemplate Mr. Stark dying. Not anymore, not again, not in his dreams (he still does), or some out-of-body-experience to another universe (hopefully that will never happen again), and certainly not on his eighteenth birthday at his ridiculously lavish and over-priced party. 

“I mean ev-er-ry-thing,” Mr. Stark squeezes his shoulder, then reaches up and flicks the side of his head. “Don’t worry about it right now, but you need to at least have it and I’m not gonna leave it to one of those assholes to give to you. Just don’t forget: Edith.”

“Ok,” Peter whispers, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “But like, you’re not, like, hiding anything?”

“Nope,” Mr. Stark flicks his head again, then straightens left arm of the glasses over Peter’s ear. “Still have two babies to chase after for many years to come.”

“Not a baby, Mr. Stark,” Peter clears his throat. “Especially not now.”

“Hmmm. Just don’t forget, Spider-baby. Edith. Say it again.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Edith.”

“You do not have access to my systems yet, Peter.”

“Ok, Edith! I got it,” Peter snaps, probably too forcefully, as Mr. Stark laughs again. “You’re gonna keep getting me to say _Edith_, aren’t you?”

“Yup,” Mr. Stark winks and reaches behind Peter to grab his empty glass, then sets it next to his own. He stuffs the torn wrapping paper into one of them. “But in the meantime--say hi, Karen.”

“Hello, Peter!” Karen’s voice chirps from the tiny speaker. Immediately semi-transparent icons, exactly like the ones in his suit mask, start scrolling down the side of the lenses. 

“Karen!”

“I’m currently syncing to your watch, status fifty-seven percent. Estimated completion in three minutes and twenty seconds.”

“Karen sunglasses!” Peter practically squeals, bouncing a little on the railing with excitement. Mr. Stark always changed the subject when he brought up the idea of trying to make glasses like his. “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Of course, bud,” Mr. Stark sniffs, and pushes his own glasses up his nose. “She’ll work in the glasses within a hundred miles of either the Tower or the Compound. Let’s go slow on this one.”

“Ok,” Peter nods, and pulls the glasses off to look more closely at them. From any other angle they look like any other pair of ridiculously overpriced sunglasses that just straddle the line of what May calls _gauche_. “Will the watch work with Karen at MIT?”

“We’ll see,” Mr. Stark narrows his eyes and squeezes Peter’s elbow. “Now put those back on and gird your loins. Nat was carrying a camera when I came out here to find you.”

“I can’t wear sunglasses inside at night, Mr. Stark.”

“Sure you can. I do, the next Tony Stark should. They even wrote a song about it.”

“I-I don’t think that’s what that song was about, Mr. Stark.”

“Sure it is,” Mr. Stark tugs on his elbow and Peter twists on the railing, hopping down to the ground. “And you’re eighteen now...don’t you think it’s time to graduate to _Tony_?”

“Nope,” Peter grins widely, straightening to his full height, which is the same as Mr. Stark’s now. 

“Someday,” he rolls his eyes, and takes a good look at Peter, before reaching out to pull the glasses off his face. “Maybe no glasses for the picture. You look ridiculous.”

“Oh my god, Mr. Stark, you made them!”

“I did, and they’ll look very sharp in your coat pocket,” he folds the arms of the glasses and tucks them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “There.”

Peter looks down at the glasses; very faintly he hears Karen’s voice. _Syncing one-hundred percent complete_. “Thanks again, Mr. Stark.”

“No more thank-yous tonight, Spider-kid,” he pats Peter’s pocket then wraps an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll get more chances tomorrow.”

“Mr. Stark!”

“Trust me, you’re gonna think I owe you after all the pictures I’m gonna make you stand through. Come on, I want to make sure we get one with that Flash asshole and we only have this place for another hour.” He steers them towards the hall door. 

“Fine. But I promised MJ we could play on the playground before we leave.” Peter reaches up to make sure the glasses are snug in his pocket. 

“Oh, jeez. Fine. Walk faster. We’ll skip the cake. I’ll ask Thor to accidentally fall in it.”

“Nah, I’ll ask Loki to do something.”

“Don’t tell me that damn cat is here.”

“Nope, I think he’s a bird or something,” Peter frowns up at the ceiling as they walk into the bustling hall. Peter had no idea he even knew this many people. 

“Whatever,” Mr. Stark waves his hand dismissively, and turns them towards the table where May is rocking an asleep Morgan while Pepper digs through a large diaper bag. “Let’s just go fast. Then you can show off to your girlfriend.”

“Oh my god,” Peter rolls his eyes, but he smiles. “But really, Mr. Stark. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he squeezes Peter’s shoulder, then reaches up to ruffle Peter’s hair. “Happy Birthday, kiddo.”

**Author's Note:**

> We're now going to start moving to where stories posted are out of order. I'm officially starting to collapse under my own mythos (much like the MCU will start to do). If the chronological order is important, I'll be sure to mention it. 
> 
> Professional cake is trash. Nothing beats yellow cake out of the box with chocolate frosting from the can.


End file.
